This weekend marks the 12th anniversary of our 27th day of August. This year there will be no tree to sit under, no quilt to spread out to sip malteds on. We will not shop around for dining room tables, nor sniff out the ripest pears at Tacoma Boys, nor see seals cavorting off in the Sound. We will not walk through rose gardens on our way to the car, or endure parting glances, or, most sadly, take away the fondest of hugs, the slightest of kisses.
No, instead, I will find a way to softly mark those years that have passed and to let you know, is some small cosmic way, that I am here where you once lived. Somehow even in saying that I felt a quiet chorus out of My Fair Lady blow about in the breeze. I hear it whenever I go off to Loveland, whenever I pass the clock that stands in front of the jewelry store your father once owned, whenever I drive past your childhood home or swing by your old high school.
Jane, you are here. Everywhere. Where are you, my love?
What gets me right in the heart, my dear, is knowing that you were here and now I am. What a thing to come about! Like some strange sci-fi time travelers film or some book that we shared together. When we started our book club years ago, CALCOPO, I never in my wildest dreams thought that I would exchange the CAlifornia in that abbreviation for COlorado. I do know that my jones for Colorado was one of the earliest commonalities that we shared. I know that just talking about being here lead to other things, things such as, I wonder what it would be like to be here with you. I wrote your that piece about an old pick up truck, dog in the back, you and I side by side, worn cowboy hats on our heads, rolling down some dusty country road.
Well, now I drive down those country roads, not in an old pick up but in an older model Buick. Weld County is criss-crossed with unpaved roads. Whenever I go off the asphalt and see that dust billow up behind me I think of you. My thoughts raced out and over the mountains to you last July when I rolled into and through Delta. I have no idea how long you lived there, if you ever saw movies at that Egyptian themed movie house, if your family bought Cascade peaches or ripe dark cherries from one of the many roadside stands that are up and down the roads all around that town. But I found myself wondering about your earliest years in the place, wondered how the remoteness marked you,how the dry intermountain west shaped you. Later that day I was right up the highway in Ouray for the Fourth, not too far from Durango, the quaint college town where you met your man, sealed our fate. I know that somehow gaining that education, getting that degree, finding your mate, all made it easier for you to leave the state, start someplace fresh that was all your own.
For what it is worth, I am glad you left Colorado, that you made your way up to Washington, to Seattle, to Port Orchard, to Goat Lake. I am happy that you made your life there for it leaves this state for me to wander. It allows me, in this new position I have coming up next week, to find my way up and over the mountains, up and down the highways along the Front Range, all the while, in the course of my work, to fill in the blanks, from Loveland to Durango to Denver to Monument, to get to know you through the solid geology of the place, the people of this state, the quaintness of its towns.
By being here, my dear, I get to somehow channel you. Twelve years ago I would have never thought to be here without you. But, really, in a lot of ways I am here with you. No matter where I go, no matter what directions our lives go, I still carry you with me in my heart. This space, like an altar to an old, vanquished time, still burns candles bright to that old love of ours. Here along the Front Range I think of you every day and wish you a happy anniversary always.
Your WHMB
